Hack Your Mind
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: Sherlock is still in the hospital recovering from his near-death experience when he revisits a certain someone in his Mind Palace.


**Author's Notes: There are so many firsts in this fic. A first for this fandom, a first for this pairing, a first in present tense and a pretty complicated character study. All in all, it was a pain in the arse, but I hope it turned out okay.**

**References: The song used in the beginning is _Dance Little Liar_ by _Arctic Monkeys_. It just fit so well that I couldn't help it. Also, this takes place during **_**His Last Vow**_** so apparently, spoilers for that.**

**I played around a bit with the signatures in the end. The last one isn't a typo, just so you know.**

**I'm really nervous about this fic and I have no idea whether it's any good – I added and took out things and passages from it several times – so feedback would be much appreciated and I'd love to know what you think of it.**

_The liar takes a lot less t__ime to decide on his saunter__  
Have you got itchy bones__  
And in all your time alone__  
Can you hack your mind being riddled__  
with the wrong memories_

The hospital is nothing but a house of boredom and a birthplace of the phrase 'You should rest, sir', so the appliance of morphine on Sherlock's side is generous and frequent – and it's also what eventually puts him to sleep, even though he is convinced that this is much more than a dream when he opens his eyes.

It's the same room, but he isn't chained and there's no straightjacket in sight. Jim is sitting on a chair that wasn't there before, dressed in a sharp black suit and looking at him with mild curiosity. Everything around him is much darker now, and Sherlock is still taking it in when Jim stands up from his place and nears him.

"It's you," Sherlock acknowledges, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

"Of course it's me." The timbre, the lazy, amused drawl is all the same as he remembers it and when Sherlock tries to stand up, he realises that he's the one tied up this time, his hands behind his back in a knot efficient enough to be impossible even for him.

He tries not to think what that speaks about the way his mind works.

Jim is standing in front of him now, his dark eyes too big and too calm for Sherlock's liking. "It'll always be me. What did you expect?"

_It'll always be me._ He couldn't agree more, no matter how bitter he is, and he wants to say so but what actually comes out is, "You abandoned me."

Jim's expression is the picture of distress. "Oh, don't be like that. That's such an ugly word. And plus," he leans in conspirationally, eyes gleaming and wide with the manic streak Sherlock had seen so often. "I never really left you, did I?"

"You weren't supposed to die." Sherlock's voice cracks and he's ashamed of himself for so many things, most of all being the fact that he feels so pathetic. Pathetic because of the shallowness in his soul and the overwhelming loneliness that is chasing him for nearly three years now. He can't properly understand it – he had always been lonely before and it had never really mattered. He had only realised just how alone he had felt when he started getting the anonymous messages. John had thought his joy was perverse when in reality, nothing had felt quite so captivating before. The attention to the details, the small threats especially for him and Sherlock had revelled in it, only to be left with the emptiness that reigns in his life ever since Jim had pulled the trigger.

But, back in the here and now, Jim just beams at him with that familiar grin that shows him just how close to the brink of insanity he is and that lights up his entire face and makes it impossible for Sherlock to not feel a certain amount of fondness, as twisted as it is, for him. "Oh, Sherlock." Jim's voice is surprisingly gentle when he stalks even closer and then gracefully falls on his knees near Sherlock's chair. The detective is trying to make the connection between the fumbling, clumsy kid that was first introduced to him as Molly's boyfriend and that nearly feline creature, and realises that he can't. "Sherlock. You always get it wrong, don't you?"

His expression is mocking but expectant and he's watching Sherlock with unholy glee as the gears in his mind suddenly start turning again, once more kicked into action by the man before him.

"I'm missing something," he mutters, mostly to himself, but Jim hears it anyway and the eye roll that follows is exaggerated as much as possible. "Of course you're missing something. Can't say I can blame you, though." He looks down, suddenly humble, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. It's a look he's seen before, when Jim knows that he's been especially clever. "After all, I'm a great actor."

And then it just falls into place. Sherlock doesn't need any more clues, doesn't need to think. The answer – as simple as it could get – is staring him right in the face.

Jim nods in approval and then tuts at Sherlock's shocked expression. "I told you," he says, eyes boring into the detective's with such intensity that he almost wants to look away. Almost. "You always think it's going to be something complicated, and it's just so _simple_ that it was impossible to notice."

"What did you do to him?" Sherlock asks and Jim inclines his head curiously. Not that Sherlock is fooled – he can see that the criminal is absolutely delighted that he'd got it right this time. "Richard Brook. He was an actual person, wasn't he?"

"Mmm, very good." The tone of voice is condescending, but Sherlock can't force himself to pay attention to it when the question is so important.

"So the man I saw in Kitty's house–"

Jim clicked his tongue. "No, that was me. It was good to see you so frustrated, you should have seen it. I couldn't miss it. Richard– He was an actor, nothing more. But an actor with several awards and an uncanny resemblance to me, so he could do the trick just fine." Jim grimaces, but doesn't look away. "You disappoint me. I hid the answer right in front of you and you still didn't see it."

"But how–"

"I tricked him, Sherlock." There's that despair in Jim's voice again, just like last time, when he can see that Sherlock isn't getting there quick enough. "The way I did with you. I threatened the most important people in his life. But he wasn't you. He was stupid. He died playing me and I watched it happen." When no reaction follows, he keeps going, this time a hand reaching out to caress Sherlock's face. "I knew you weren't going to die. It was a test, Sherlock. I wanted to see if you could make it. It was more work than expected, though. Did you know that for two years I had to pick up everything you broke – every link and every associate?"

Sherlock feels anger rising up in him – and emotion only Jim always manages to bring forward, even when he's not even in the room – and the other man apparently notices it, if the gleam of excitement in his eyes is something to go by.

"Now, don't get all riled up. Ah, ah." He raises his voice when Sherlock starts struggling against his bonds. "Don't do that." He shakes his head sternly and much to his own surprise, Sherlock stops, only to have Jim grin at him, apparently pleased. "There's a good boy." He leans even closer and his breath ghosts over Sherlock's ear when he whispers, "Don't go looking for me. I'll find you when the time comes."

"What?" It's harder to concentrate, somehow, and Sherlock tries to gather his thoughts. Another smile dawns on Jim's face.

"Wakey, wakey."

"Sir?" Sherlock feels the world around him collapsing and chancing from the calming black to a blinding white in the matter of seconds. "Sir, please wake up." A hand is shaking his shoulder. "Mr Holmes?"

It takes a lot of effort for him to open his eyes, but Sherlock finally manages it, only to see a woman – blonde, mid twenties, recently married by the looks of it – staring at him with panic in her eyes that she's trying to hide and that quickly morphs to relief. "I'm sorry, sir, but I was told it was time to wake you up." She holds up a notepad and a pen and Sherlock quickly realises that apparently it's time again for them to check if he still knows who he is. "Not this again," he tries, but the nurse isn't moved by his troubles. "Your name, please?"

**o.O.o**

Five days after England had stopped echoing with Jim's voice, Sherlock still can't get it out of his head. Of course, it's still everywhere – the news, the Internet, the newspapers and all sorts of hypothesis plague the population, but the detective knows very well exactly to whom the question had been posed, so he decides that an answer is in order. He doesn't need to find the number – he remembers it perfectly – and sends a very simple message.

_Yes. – SH_

The answer is immediate. _You've got to admire my timing._

Sherlock stares at the screen of his phone, unsure. He knows, of course, had known since Mycroft's call, that Jim had known what was happening and had done this for him. And yet, he isn't sure what to do. All through the last three years his only conversations with the consulting criminal had happened in his head – even the one that had revealed him the truth.

_Yes. – SH_

Safer that way, he decides. Keep it calm. He'll either give up or send coordinates.

What bothers him the most if the fact that he knows which option excites him more.

The phone rings again almost immediately and Sherlock lifts it up to his face with his heart in his throat.

_Hyde Park, the tree where you broke your arm when you were five._

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the device and is just about to reply when another message comes.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are..._

No signature again. He's confident. He knows that Sherlock will comply.

He doesn't hesitate a second longer.

_Yes. - S_


End file.
